


Necessary Things

by MotherInLore



Category: Slayers (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Background Ame/Zel, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming of Age, Courtly intrigue, F/M, Pining, Starting Over, What this palace needs is an introvert, spot the Brit Lit references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-11 06:44:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13518690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotherInLore/pseuds/MotherInLore
Summary: While the Gang tears around saving the world, Sylphiel works on rebuilding her life.  And making her way in a new city.  And figuring out what she wants.  And... and things.Not novels compliant, probably - I made up a lot of backstory about the Seyruun family.





	Necessary Things

**Author's Note:**

> sorry not sorry.

Just because he'd had an injured foot, didn't mean Prince Philionel had been idle, those few days while the children pitted their magic against the False Rezo and the resurrected Demon Beast. He'd have gone mad if he'd given himself time to worry. Instead, he'd ridden the roads around fallen Sairaag, finding the survivors who had fled the city in time, sounding out the leaders of some of the surrounding villages, promising aid from Seyruun, and in general doing whatever a foreign prince could do to stabilize a country that had just lost its capitol. Sairaag had been too important an ally for too long to just leave these things to chance. To say nothing of the demands of Justice: the chimera boy who had attached himself to the party gave Phil an earful about the secret life of Rezo the Red priest. Given the support Seyruun had offered Rezo over the years, Phil felt honor-bound to make some kind of reparations. And the Sairaagese were good people. Once Phil had put a little heart into the frightened ones, they got themselves very well-organized and were already making plans to rebuild before the battle was won. Amelia and her friends stumbled away from the holy tree Flagoon to be met with piles of food on trestle tables, cauldrons of warm wash water in the shells of a couple of buildings, mattresses and tents. Phil grinned with relief to see his only remaining daughter coming back alive and well and flushed with victory. Even that other poor girl fainting couldn't take away from his glow of satisfaction. He didn't know why it was, but meeting him did have that effect on some people.

Phil made a point of seeking out each of the young heroes in turn, that last night before he and Amelia headed back home. Lina and Gourry were much as he remembered them, refreshingly simple and straightforward, each of them, in their own ways, trying to conceal hearts of gold and doing a fairly poor job of it. The chimera, he thought, had hidden depths. Amelia had filled his ears with all the ways Zelgadis-san had impressed her, and how he really wasn't quite so creepy-looking after you got used to him, and he'd sighed internally, and hoped his daughter's current crush wasn't on anyone too unworthy. The fact that the boy wasn't pressing for any advantage spoke well for him. Finally, Phil sought out the shrine maiden Sylphiel and found her in the improvised kitchen that fed the work crews, industriously kneading bread. She had covered her skin-tight sorceress' costume with a frilly apron, but the flour was getting everywhere anyway. At least she'd hung her cape up somewhere. She looked much smaller and younger without it.

“Sylphiel-san?” He tried to keep his voice down to something gentler than his usual parade-ground bellow. The girl looked shy, ducking her head under an extraordinary curtain of hair. “Might I have a quick word with you?”

She looked up at him, her eyes taking a little time to focus properly, and then she shrugged. “All right,” she said, and stepped away from the kitchen, toward the Tree.

Phil bowed to her and then smote his chest in salute. “I wish to extend my thanks as Crown Prince of Seyruun to you for your great service and help in the battle against the evil Zanafar and the sorcerer who summoned it. I understand it was your sword that enabled Lina-san to strike the decisive blow, and your timely recovery spell that awoke the spirit of the tree Flagoon and enabled the victory.”

“Oh.” Sylphiel blinked a little. She had a very quiet, slow voice, rather uncertain sounding. “I guess it was.”

“I must also extend my thanks to you in my own name, as Philonel El di Seyruun, for saving the life of my daughter, Amelia. I could not in good conscience prevent her from joining a righteous battle against the forces of evil, but if I'd lost her I don't--” he gulped, “I don't know what I would have done.”

The shrine maiden winced and took a couple of sharp breaths. “I lost my father,” she whispered, and Phil felt suddenly awful. He'd known that, he really had. Amelia had said so. He really should learn to be more tactful. This girl was perhaps twenty, only a little younger than Phil had been when he lost his wife. That memory still stung, but even worse was the nightmare he sometimes had, that it was he that had been lost, and his beloved Antigone was alone among enemies.... he could not let Sylphiel-san think she was alone.

“I'm so very sorry,” he said aloud, reaching out to pat the girl on the shoulder. “Life is fragile and fleeting, and it is this very thing that makes love so precious. I am sure your father would be very proud of you for choosing to work to rebuild the city rather than wallowing in despair.”

“Yes. I... yes. Excuse me please.” The girl blinked her green eyes a few more times and drifted back toward the kitchen, and Phil let her go. It had not been his most shining moment, he reflected. He wished there had been something else he could say.

 

*****

 

Sylphiel tended to mark the First Fall of Sairaag as the end of her childhood, for all the obvious reasons and a few that were more subtle. Her uncle's household made allowances for her shock and grief, but treated her as an adult. They expected her to know her own duties, fill her own days, and settle her own accounts, and she found, to her surprise, that she was more than capable of doing so. For the first time, it occurred to her that she could take steps to make a future she wanted, rather than relying on fate. She wanted that future to be with her dear Gourry. He was the only man her own age that she had ever known with anything like the kindness and high ideals her father and the other priests had instilled in her (and of course, he was quite handsome), and he was always so very nice to her. He listened with real interest when most of the boys she knew would scarcely let her talk at all. Sometimes he would show her things or bring her things she liked – nothing significant, just pretty stones or sprays of healing herbs, but enough to show he was paying attention. Yes, when the time came, she wanted to go away with Gourry.

To that end, she needed to train. The Fall of Sairaag had opened her eyes to just how dangerous Gourry's daily life could get. Holy magic wouldn't be enough for her, out there with him. Lina-san, mad little witch that she was, must be genuinely useful to have about, which might be why he tolerated her. Or maybe, as an easy-going sort of man, he hadn't really thought about what he wanted. Well, Sylphiel would ask if she could come with him, the next time he came her way, and once he saw what life was like with a modest, even-tempered woman _who could also cast the Dragon Slave,_ he would come to know his own heart. And then... and then... So Sylphiel began studying the Dragon Slave. It took her three months to be able to invite the Dark Lord's power into her body without coming down with the dry heaves. But it was worth it, if it meant she could have the life she wanted. And then Gourry came back. Still with Lina-san in tow, and the Princess Amelia and Zelgadis too. The man did seem to draw people to him, friendly soul that he was. They were bound for Old Sairaag, just as she herself was at the time, and to her delight, both her dear Gourry and even Lina-san agreed at once that she could come along with them to wherever they were going afterward. Sylphiel sent a message to her uncle's household. She had finally taken that first step.

The fates stepped on her, though, almost immediately. Even the battle with Copy Rezo had not prepared her for anything as heartbreaking or terrifying as the city of ghosts, in the careless, cruel hands of the Hellmaster. And then, at the very end of the battle, when Hellmaster was gone and the Lord of Nightmares seemed to be going, her dear Gourry had done what he had done, and it became clear that he was tied to Lina-san by a great deal more than mere fondness. Sylphiel still came away with them, because they still seemed to expect it, and because she had told her uncle she would. They made her welcome, in their fashion. Lina wheedled and teased her, trying to get her to pay for things. Zelgadis wordlessly helped her set up her tent or lent her a hand when they were going over rough ground. Amelia babbled artlessly about whatever came into her head. Gourry praised her cooking and smiled his same, kindly, absent-minded smile. Sylphiel's every breath was fire.

Amelia helped her out of it. Sylphiel quite liked the young princess, and not just because their journey brought the two of them together fairly often. Amelia was so much braver and more outgoing than Sylphiel had been at that age. Or even now, to be honest. So while Lina tore about carrying out insane get-rich-quick schemes and Gourry tried to prevent damage and Zelgadis poked his pointed nose into temples and research labs, Amelia and Sylphiel took care of lodging and laundry and so on and talked. Or rather, Amelia talked and Sylphiel listened.

“You're so nice, Sylphiel-san. It's almost like having my big sister back with me again. You'll come with me to Seyruun, won't you?”

Sylphiel thought about it. “I suppose I could... I hadn't really decided what I was going to do next.”

“Oh, but you have to!” Amelia cried, eyes alight, “Seyruun always needs more white mages! Daddy has this plan now, where each district will have its own designated cleric who goes around and does all the little healing things, like vaccinating the babies against Durum Plague.”

Sylphiel had to admit, she liked the sound of that. To be a part of something larger, serving the greater good.... surely that would help keep her from brooding over her own foolish choices, her own broken heart....

A week or two later, when Zelgadis-san left the party (he'd heard rumors of a magical library near the edge of the Desert of Destruction,) it was Sylphiel that Amelia cried on.

“It's not as though I can blame him,” she sobbed. “It's absolutely the right thing for him to try and right the terrible injustice Rezo perpetrated against him. And he must, in the name of Righteousness, pursue every lead and never give up hope... but, but...”

Sylphiel patted her on the back sympathetically.

“He's so _cool..._ and I'm so- so... what can I do, Sylphiel-san? How do I make him like me?”

Five years' difference would be less of an issue by the time the princess came of age, but between fourteen and not-quite-twenty there was a yawning gulf. To say nothing of the diplomatic questions, should the second in line for the throne of Seyruun take up with a chimera. Sylphiel saw no point in pretending otherwise. But neither did she want to crush the goodhearted girl. “I don't know what to tell you,” she said. “None of the advice I could offer actually worked for _me...”_

Amelia snuffled.

“There's this, though,” Sylphiel offered after another minute's thought. “He does know how you feel about him...” or else he was even more oblivious than dear Gourry. Amelia had been positively brazen, by Sylphiel's standards. Of course, Sylphiel's standards had led her here, miles from home, watching her beloved grow closer and closer to someone else. “...And he hasn't shut you down,” she concluded aloud.

Amelia un-collapsed from the bed and clasped her hands in front of her ample chest. “You're right!” her red eyes shone with renewed hope. “Oh, Sylphiel-san, you always know how to make people feel better! I'm so glad you're coming to Seyruun!”

 

*****

_sometime later_

Phil's daughter waylaid him on his way back from a workout session with the Palace Guard. He'd been hoping to grab a nice cold shower before his afternoon's round of meetings, but he stopped at once at her cry of “Daddy! Daddy-san!”

“Amelia!” he greeted her in return. Mindful of his sweaty and doubtless odorous state, he refrained from offering a hug, but Amelia gave him one anyway.

“Daddy, I have wonderful news! Sylphiel's solved that problem you were having with the City Watch. Um, you do remember Sylphiel nels Lada, don't you? From Sairaag?”

Prince Philionel looked just past his beaming daughter to the tall young woman who hovered nervously in her wake. Sylphiel of Sairaag. Of course. He bowed slightly and smiled, trying to make up for his disheveled state with an extra dose of courtliness. “Ah, yes! Good to see you again, Sylphiel-san. How are you settling in, eh?” The girl had come in with Amelia after the most recent adventure, four months ago? Five?

The green eyes hid themselves briefly behind white lids with long lashes. “Very well, sir, thank you. Um... I see you're... I didn't mean to be a bother...”

“Oh, don't worry, Sylphiel-san!” Amelia overrode her. She grabbed her father's hand and started to drag him into the Coral Sitting Room, just down the hall. “Come on, Daddy! You're going to want to hear this!”

True happiness could be achieved only by bowing to the inevitable. Phil allowed himself to be tugged into the Coral room, where he waved both young ladies into seats at the little inlaid table by the bow window. He himself stood, trying not to transfer sweat stains to the furniture. “Now, sweetheart, what's all this about?”

Amelia bounced in her chair. “I told Sylphiel-san about the problems we were having with the City Guardsmen – how people get angry at them even when they're trying to help, and she knows how to fix it!”

The shrine maiden shrank back under her cape a little. “Um,” she said, “that's not exactly...”

“You do so!”

Phil waved Amelia to silence and tried to gentle his own voice a little. “It's alright, Sylphiel-san. Just tell me whatever you told Amelia. Take your time.”

“Yes, sir.” Sylphiel-san gulped, straightened her shoulders, and closed her eyes again – thinking this time, not wincing. “Well,” she said, “what I told the princess is what I was taught at the Temple of Flagoon about healing work, and about how to talk to people who are injured or sick, or just afraid. You see, when people don't feel well and safe, their minds don't work very well, and they have a hard time thinking and understanding things. So you have to be very patient and use short sentences, and say the same thing over and over again. Like, even if someone just said, 'here's the healer,' I'll still tell a patient, 'I'm the healer Sylphiel, and I'm here to tend your injuries.' And then when you've told someone who you are, you tell them what you're doing and why, every step of the way. Like, 'I'm going to look at your leg now, and see if it's broken.' And like that.”

The prince listened intently, frowning a bit. “So you're thinking that would apply to guardsmen, too. 'I'm a guardsman, and I'm here to make sure you're safe,' even if they're in full uniform and holding off a ruffian.”

“Something like that, sir.”

Phil suppressed a brief pang. Currently, the guards had to announce themselves with a brief, poetic speech he had written himself, about the Fist of Justice and the Hand of Mercy. He had been very proud of it, but the young lady was right – frightened, upset people were not the best audience for poetry. He slammed a hand down on the little table. Sylphiel-san squeaked. “Right!” Phil straightened and raised a finger in the air. “We must take steps!” He yanked on the bellpull and rapped out his orders to the lackey who answered his summons. “Get Chief Parker to meet us here. And whatsername, the novice mistress at the Central Temple. Hester, that's it. Get Madame Hester here, too. Send my apologies to my brother; I may be a bit late to the Intelligence briefing. And, er, smelly. And my apologies to Aunt Eunice, but I may miss tea... tea! Have some tea brought up here, and sandwiches and... things.”

The footman had been at the palace for a few years now and was used to this kind of thing. “Chief Parker, Novice Mistress Hester, you may be late to the meeting, you may miss tea, bring sandwiches,” he repeated, and trotted off smartly down the hall.

Chief Parker and Madame Hester and the sandwiches had all converged in the Coral Sitting Room within twenty minutes, and Prince Phil began the meeting. “Chief,” he announced, “You'll be glad to know I'm doing away with the Hand of Justice speech. We'll keep it for promotion ceremonies and things, but it obviously doesn't work well in the streets.”

The chief set down his tea mug and wiped his corrugated forehead with one calloused hand. “Thank you, sire.”

“You're not off the hook yet, though,” Phil warned. “I still think your bronze-shield boys need to learn a thing or two about talking to citizens. So you and Madame Hester and Sylphiel-san here are going to coordinate a bit. You're going to figure out which parts of the usual Shrine Maiden training can be applied to the Guard, and then see that all the guardsmen get it. And then you're going to assign each and every one of the guards to spend a shift following one of the district clerics around and see how they do it. If you need to take a little longer to make sure each of them gets time with a cleric who's _good_ at people, do that. All right?”

“Urk,” said Chief Parker, and Madame Hester clenched her teacup and gulped, “Sire?” as Sylphiel-san squeaked, “Me?”

“Yes!” Phil brought his fist down with a crash on the tea tray, denting the silver a bit. “Both the guards and the district clerics are working with the poorest parts of the City. You both are dealing with people who, for one reason or another, are having very bad days, and trying to help them. But the clerics are beloved and the guards get rotten fish thrown at them. I believe we can do something about that. Tell them what you told me, Sylphiel-san.”

The girl colored and the fringe on her epaulettes trembled, but she cleared her throat. “We were talking about the training for talking to upset people. You know, short sentences, and explain everything, and...”

“Ah!” Madame Hester set her teacup down and smiled. “Of course!”

“I'd never thought of that as a trainable skill,” Chief Parker mused, and they were away. Even Amelia's friend got over her shyness and jumped in with enthusiasm; she had more to contribute than she thought she did, merely by virtue of having been trained outside the city, with a different perspective on the problem. Prince Phil left them to it as soon as he was sure the theoretical discussion would in fact result in scheduled trainings. He even had time to change his shirt before he dropped in at the Intelligence briefing, only a little bit late.

 

*****

_a year or so after that_

 

“Oh, I do hope the princess is all right!” Lucy sighed. Sylphiel nodded agreement and tried not to roll her eyes. It wasn't that she wasn't worried about Amelia, swept off the edge of the map along with the _HHS Venture,_ and _sans_ crew, with only Zelgadis-san and Lina-san and dear Gourry to help her. The problem was that Lucy said this near the beginning of every evening, as the shrine maidens of the Central temple put up their capes and staffs and settled down in the senior common room. And then she would spend the rest of the evening gossiping or trying to butter up Madame Hester, never thinking of the princess again. 

“I'm sure the princess is fine.” Blanche was perhaps a year older than Sylphiel and impatient with social lies, preferring to be brilliant and witty. Her clerics' garb was in the revealing style more usually favored by Black Magic practitioners than by shrine maidens. “That whole family are all but indestructible,” she added, in flat contradiction of recent history. “And I'll tell you what,” she added, draping herself across one of the sofas in way that was surely wasted in this company, “It's a stroke of luck for us that she's away again. Now we can really make an impression without looking like we're trying to show up royalty. There will be that many more plum assignments open, and that many more eligible men watching. If you really mean to add a keyhole neckline to your basque, Lucy darling, now's the time.”

“I'm going to make a v-neck on mine.” This was Lucy's sister Ann, perched on a tuffet in front of the fireplace. “And I'm going to trim it with pink ribbons. I think it will look very well on me, and I don't care if anyone _does_ say I'm only doing it because it's Doctor Davis's favorite color.” Ann's pursuit of the head cleric of the Southeast Temple made Amelia's pursuit of Zelgadis-san look positively demure. “And if you want to do alterations on yours, Sylphiel dear, I'm happy to help you.”

“Um, that's all right, thank you,” Sylphiel managed, “I think I'll leave my garb the way it is.”

“Sylphiel doesn't mind being drab,” Blanche declared. “She _likes_ going around the slums and patching up the drunkards and being polite to deaf old beldames with fifteen children. She'll take over for Madame Hester someday, mark my words.”

Sylphiel looked down at her hands. Temple politics were not a closed book to her. She understood ambitious women trying to get ahead within the temple hierarchy, and being quiet and functional was a good way to avoid trouble among those. But she had not really had to deal before with women who wanted to use the Temple to advance somewhere else. The (increasingly sporadic) presence of the Princess Amelia lent Central Temple a certain social cachet. Girls joined the temple because they might be invited to attend palace functions, be introduced to high-ranking guardsmen or other civil servants. Might be known to be a friend of Amelia's. For that set, no amount of quiet competence would allow Sylphiel to escape notice while the Princess still called her “friend.” And Sylphiel, selfishly, did not want to push Amelia away because there were so few other girls here who wanted to talk about real things, like how to gather up surplus food and give it to the poor without hurting market prices, or even what true love looked like, if you weren't in a play or a soap opera. Sylphiel hoped Amelia was all right for all the important reasons, but also because she missed her.

“Lord!” Lucy groaned, “Old Wrinkles drove us _so_ hard today!” She flopped her head dramatically against the back of an easy chair. “All the usual healing stuff and mazoku drills with the Guard and planning those filthy district picnics... you'd think someone who makes us learn all those sutras would understand the value of a little quiet meditation time.” If Lucy ever recited a sutra without an audience in front of her, Sylphiel would cut her basque down to a bikini top and eat the scrap fabric, without sauce.

“Oh, Lucy,” Ann chided, “That ain't Madame's fault, that's straight from His Hairy Highness. Doctor Davis says the man is barely sleeping right now; he's pushing himself and everyone else and trying to keep busy every waking moment, just like he did last year when she ran away that time and ended up in the ruins of Sairaag. You weren't here, yet, were you Sylphiel? We had a bad enough time of it, let me tell you!”

“Ann!” Lucy hissed. “Shhh!” She mouthed something at her sister that Sylphiel did not attempt to decipher, as it was probably about her. But mentions of Sairaag no longer made her cry automatically now; it was all right.

“The Prince told me once,” she said quietly, “After Sairaag fell, that it was better to work than to wallow.”

Lucy made a flouncing gesture, even though her cape was hanging on its peg at the moment and not there to be flounced. “I don't see why he can't distract himself with balls and tourneys and other _pleasant_ things,” she sulked.

Blanche stretched lazily, looking down her own long legs. “There's this, though...” she purred, “this is the third time in four years the Princess has put herself in danger abroad. So his ministers are going to be entirely on our side."

“More parties?” Lucy looked confused.

“Goose.” Blanche's smile sharpened. “Securing the line. If something were to happen to Amelia now we'd have to fight to keep the crown from going to her-sister-the-traitor when His Highness dies. We don't even have Alfred to fall back on now. So his ministers are going to be _very_ interested in the Prince finding a friend and helpmeet to comfort him in his afflictions. One young enough to have more children.”

“You're going to flirt with _Prince Phil?”_ Lucy looked both shocked and impressed.

“Maybe,” Blanche studied her fingernails.

Ann shuddered. “I never could! I don't care how rich and powerful he is, he's just so ugly! Doctor Davis has beautifully chiseled features,” she added. “I may not be chasing him, but even I can see that.”

“Your pardon, Ann, but chiseled is exactly what the Prince's features are,” Blanche declared with a grin. “Riven from the living wood, entirely without benefit of sandpaper. But at least they aren't insipid. One could become accustomed, especially with a nice sparkly crown to light everything up.”

Sylphiel wanted to believe that Blanche wasn't as bad as she pretended to be. She could be warm and funny with the patients at the district clinics, and she'd been very kind (if authoritative) about showing Sylphiel the ropes when she first joined Central Temple. But the idea of using the prince's misfortune as a kind of launch pad just made her sick. It reminded her of the way Hellmaster had used her people's ghosts against Lina-san and the rest of them. All she said aloud, though, was “Surely, if the ministers want the Prince to remarry, they'd want him to choose a high-ranking woman from some other city? For the alliances and all that?”

“Maybe,” Blanche admitted, “But he did that for his first wife. It might actually offend Teslagrad if he chose a second from somewhere else, as if he were going back on the agreements with them. Besides. Often the way it works is that the first wife is for duty and the second one is for ...” Blanche winked elaborately, “Fun.”

“Amelia told me her parents cared for each other very much,” Sylphiel said.

“Yes, well, she would think so.”

 

*****

 

When the envoy from the Golden Dragons informed the court that Amelia and her party had made landfall in the West, and that they were under the protection of the Golden Dragons for the remainder of their mission, Prince Philionel declared a public holiday and organized a ball for the court and the palace staff, including the Central district guards and clerics. Sylphiel borrowed a dress from Ann (green, discarded for not being Dr. Davis' favorite color) and basted a silk scarf in the lower part of the plunging neckline, leaving a modest decolletage of a handspan down from the collarbone. Blanche, of course, wore something sparkly in red and gold, with side cutouts as well as the v-neck. She was surrounded by guardsmen eager to dance as soon as they walked into the ballroom. Sylphiel hung back and watched, mostly. She hadn't learned many of the dances here yet. At least, not the ones that required a partner. She wasn't unhappy, listening to the music and watching the bright colors. His Highness was dancing too, she noted with a little surprise. He was a heavy-footed, but precise, dancer – making even the minuet look like something of a romp, but never actually missing a step or treading on anyone's hem. Blanche dropped a wink or two in his direction, but all of his partners were married ladies, the one exception being Sarah, aged nine, newest student at Central Temple. Sylphiel enjoyed watching them a great deal, rather more than she enjoyed the few times she ventured out on the floor with a partner. The whole room that night was full of joy and relief. But Sylphiel was only too aware that the involvement of the Dragon clans meant that this... situation was neither simple nor safe. She couldn't help worrying, at least a little. As the season turned and dark fell early, Sylphiel found herself looking at the distant pillar of light that brightened the streets of Seyruun like an extra moon, and wondering if Lina-san and the rest of them had got there yet, and what they would do when they did. Sometimes she even made her way to the observatory on the roof of the Temple and looked through the spyglass they had trained on the Pillar. If she had a spare moment in the daylight hours and her duties took her that way, Sylphiel would drop by the dovecote, just in case one of the flurry of message pigeons that came in and out bore news of the Princess. So far, none of them had.

As the winter wore on, she had many opportunities to visit the dovecote. Madame Hester informed her that she would be tapping Sylphiel to work the anti-spy shields at some of the regular palace meetings. “You have the skill,” Madame Hester told her bluntly, “and I know I can trust you to keep your mouth shut about what goes on there.” So Sylphiel's day took her near the dovecote quite often. She was starting to recognize some of the other regulars – The Prince's brother, Lord Christopher, Minister of Healthy Paranoia. Madame Hester. One of the cooks who had no power at all but an insatiable curiosity. The prince himself, who rarely actually set foot in the place, just drifted toward it and then away again, like Gourry with a bakery display when he couldn't afford to buy anything and Lina-san wasn't there to just bully food out of the storekeeper. Sylphiel had come to respect His Highness a great deal, after watching him manage all those meetings. He never seemed to get bored, though his decisiveness could shade into impatience. His energy, like his gaping grin, was infectious, putting heart into the most routine business. And the clarity of his morals Sylphiel found very impressive; her own so often seemed tentative and muddled by comparison. All in all, and however disconcerting his manner could be, Sylphiel was not sorry to be serving this particular ruler. Compared to some of the horrible-sounding people Zelgadis-san said he had had to serve in his wanderings, she was very lucky indeed.

Even the so called 'news hounds' usually avoided looking at the Pillar. Whatever it portended, it was a long way away and somebody else's problem. The Princess would let them know what was up eventually, and in the meantime, the extra light at night was nice to have. By the time the princess' first message came to the palace, many people had already sort of stopped seeing it. When the Pillar changed, even Sylphiel could not be certain she had noticed as quickly as it happened. She wasn't sure, at first, what she was seeing; the Pillar had disappeared behind clouds before, as storms rolled across the sky. It wasn't until she looked up an hour later and saw the spot of darkness at the top of the pillar had not moved that she pelted up the stairs to the observatory.

The view through the telescope confirmed all of Sylphiel's vague fears without rendering them one whit less vague. The Pillar, larger and brighter than it had ever been before, seemed the base of a swirling funnel of darkness, a gathering of black stormclouds bigger than the biggest typhoon. Now and then Sylphiel saw flickers of darkness in the body of the Pillar, like reverse lightning, but whether they were real or figments of her tired eyes she didn't know. She drew away from the telescope to stretch, then shrieked when a huge, bulky figure loomed up at her out of the evening gloom.

Prince Philionel caught her arm before she could accidentally jump backward off the parapet. “Pardon, Sylphiel-san, I didn't mean to startle you.”

“Oh!” Sylphiel panted, “No, that's all right, Phil-sama. Please.” She gestured at the telescope. The prince nodded and settled himself into the place she had been, looking out at the Pillar. He made the sort of mm-hm noises in his throat that he made when listening to someone without entirely agreeing with them. Sylphiel hovered. She couldn't do anything useful here. She should go. “Looks like there's something big happening, doesn't it?” she said.

The Prince grunted a trifle more emphatically. “Possibly, according to Milgazia-duomo, the end of the world. Again.”

Sylphiel's knees wobbled. Only the wildest rumor-mongers had hinted at anything like this; the ones that claimed that Lina-san was Prince Phil's love-child, and that was why he hadn't put a price on her head before now. “Sir?” she squeaked.

“We've kept it quiet,” the Prince rasped, “Since beyond sending Amelia there wasn't much we could do. But that pillar is a gateway to another world, one with a Dark Lord of its own.”

“Oh,” Sylphiel said faintly.

“So I'm keeping vigil,” the prince explained, “and hoping that our people made it there, and are ready to do what needs doing. There may be nothing more I can do for my city than be awake when we are all destroyed.” He made a rhythmic hissing sound that might have been a humorless laugh. “Tell me, Sylphiel-san,” he said after another moment, without taking his eye from the telescope, “Does it still seem worthwhile to you, all the striving we do after Justice, when our whole kingdom, indeed everything we know, comes to nothing? For it does, in the end, you know. Even a king is a very small creature.”

“If it took Seyruun to create Amelia, sire, and Amelia to save the world, then that isn't 'nothing.'” The words, like many spoken in the court, were true, but also platitudinous. Sylphiel thought a while longer, about her own trials, about what she had and hadn't done when she returned to Sairaag and fought the Hellmaster. “I suppose, sir,” she said after a while, “that I think of it this way: some of the hymns and the sutras speak of the body of the godhead residing in the people – all of us, together. Well, from the point of view of the gods, we aren't anything really. A few hairs, or a- a toenail, or something. If we try with all our might and main to do everything right, we'll still have just made a toenail. But at the same time... have you ever had to concentrate when you had a bad hangnail, or a hair stuck in your eye? Small isn't the same as nothing. It's not... not wasted, I don't think, even if we just help the real powers to not... itch.”

The bearlike shoulders shook, and after a moment the prince looked up and began laughing his usual roaring laugh. “AhahahaHAH! Hah!” He slapped the parapet. “Hangnails... oho, Sylphiel-san, I-haihai h- I just had a vision... all my castoff hairs and scabs and teeth lined up waiting for judgment and pleading me for mercy-hee-hee...” he wiped his eyes, still laughing, and clasped his hands in an attitude of prayer, “Ha- HAH! 'Please, great Phil-Kami, forgive me for developing a cavity... I tried my hardest, I really did, but there were just too many gumdrops that stuck to me...' Hah hah hah HAH!” Sylphiel giggled too, because it was nearly impossible not to when Phil-sama was laughing. “What I think is not so very different from that,” he admitted, once he had stopped laughing. He settled himself sideways on the parapet so that he could continue to look out to the west even if he was not crouching by the telescope. He waved at an empty piece of parapet next to him and Syphiel perched too. “Only, even when we stay humble and small, we must remember we partake of the Power of Love, which is one of the greatest powers there is, for good or ill. The Zanafar rose from the dead and destroyed Sairaag because one lovesick girl couldn't let go of the man she'd lost, and sent the one she had mad with jealousy. The Lord of Nightmares came to our plane, as I understand it, because Lina-san could not let Gourry-san go, and perhaps the world survived the Golden Lord because Gourry did the same for Lina. So I know that Amelia carries my love with her, and her own, and I trust that she will know, as I hope I did, the right time to let go.”

Love and letting go... Sylphiel thought of herself and how far her love for Gourry-san had taken her. And that had been an unspoken and unrequited love. She looked out at the Pillar again. Night had fallen; it was no longer possible to make out the black cloud at its top, but it seemed to her that the Pillar itself had changed again. She scurried over to the telescope and looked through the eyepiece. “It has colors now!” she informed the Prince, “Red and purple streaks going up and down...” she backed away to let him see for himself.

“Ah, yes,” Phil-sama peered into the eyepiece. “And black... it does look like we have reached a climax.” He went silent, and Sylphiel leaned on the parapet, eyes straining westward, then knelt down and prayed silently. _I don't know what any of us can do, so far away from the ones who have been chosen for this battle. But if there is any power or help that I can give to Lina-san and Gourry-sama and Amelia-sama and Zelgadis-san, I pray that it may be given to them. And if something must be taken from me to accomplish this, I offer it freely._ She could not say how long the two of them stayed there on the high tower, huddled in their capes against the cold, watching the Pillar, but at the end of that time, the pillar grew brighter for a moment and then vanished altogether, blinking out like a shooting star. Sylphiel gasped and the Prince grunted.

“What happened?” she quavered. Not that there was any way Phil-sama would know, either. 

He rolled his shoulders. “I expect the battle is over,” he said. “Either the Dark Lord of the overworld has been defeated, or he has come to our world and is beginning his attack. Really difficult to tell which, from here.” He bent back over the telescope. “But I can see some of the western stars again where that black cloud was, so we can hope it is the former. Or at least that we will have time to prepare before we have another War of the Monster's Fall. I recommend that you go back to your dormitory, Sylphiel-san, and get some sleep.”

“You really think we won, sir?” Sylphiel told herself it was ridiculous to ask, and ridiculous, too, to be comforted when he nodded sharply, as if reviewing the troops before him. All the same, she felt all the twanging muscles in her back and neck relax and ease, as if his reassurance were a true guarantee. 

“I'll let you know as soon as I hear from Amelia,” he promised her. “I know you two are good friends.”

“Thank you, sir.” Sylphiel bowed and turned to go down the stairs, back out into the suddenly-darker streets and back to the Temple.

His voice floated behind her. “Sleep well, toenail-san; you have done what you can for now.”

“Safe vigil, toe-sama.” The next morning, and over the following weeks, Sylphiel blushed bright red and writhed internally whenever she had reason to think of her offhand reply. But in the moment, it had seemed the obvious and necessary thing to say.

 

******

 

Next morning, the western horizon was marked neither by pillar nor cloud. Sylphiel went through the routines of a typical Marsday as if nothing had happened in the night, though she was, perhaps, more forceful than usual with Lavinia when she taught the younger girls at the Temple. When this day had been bought at such a high (if undefined) price, it seemed especially wicked of Lavinia to spend it tormenting Ermingarde and Sarah. Weeks later, official word of the victory came to Seyruun – not from the dragons this time. All news of or from the dragons had grown very strange and disjointed. Prince Phil declared another public holiday. He declared a five-day holiday when his daughter and her friends actually returned to the City. Amelia hugged Sylphiel the first time they happened across each other, but didn't have a lot of free time for renewing old friendships. She had put on three inches in height during her journey, and half a world more dignity. Sylphiel held the anti-spy shield during the official debrief, and held her tongue afterward, much to Blanche and Lucy's disgust. Lina and Gourry left town again after the party was over. Zelgadis stayed a while longer, then left, then came back, then left, then came back...

“I'm beginning to think the Princess means to have her chimera after all,” Blanche remarked one evening in the senior common room.

“Do you?” Sylphiel was marking a stack of student papers for Madame Hester, and glad of the distraction. “I thought maybe she'd finally gotten over it; she's been a lot less... demonstrative toward him, since they came back from the West.”

“I was in the Market Plaza,” Blanche began her story, “And Amelia-sama was looking in the windows of Madame Silkworm's, and the chimera was poking through the cheap books in front of Tofflemeyer's, and I decided to do the quick-shield drill. I called, 'Amelia-sama! Shield!” She and the chimera both had their shields up right away, and next thing I knew they were standing back to back and had combined their shields and pushed them outward. You don't get that kind of sync without working together. A lot. And you should have seen the glare I got from Zelgadis-san!”

“That's different from...from wanting to get married, though,” Sylphiel murmurred.

“Oh,” Ann waved a hand from the sofa, “not so far apart, though. And I daresay I can't blame her much. Zel-san ain't so handsome and civil as Dr. Davis, but he's ever so romantic... all that adventuring, and his Tragic Past.... and now he's even been to the West!”

“Keep pestering the doctor that way and he may well head west, too.” Lucy said waspishly. Her own chosen beau had lately been seen in the company of Lady Eleanor, and Lucy was not happy about it.

“Well, and I daresay the Prince will put a stop to it,” Ann rattled on. “Perhaps Sylphiel can catch him on the rebound, in that case. Would you like Zelgadis-san for a beau, Sylphiel?”

Sylphiel frowned a little and shook her head. “He's not really the sort that I... well, maybe, if he's changed as much as the Princess has over the last while, it might be all right, but I certainly don't begrudge Amelia her choice.”

“No,” said Lucy, in a syrupy voice, “you never begrudge anyone, do you, Sylphiel?”

“What sort of man does appeal to you, Sylphiel?” Blanche sounded genuinely interested.

Sylphiel thought about it a little. She pictured Gourry in her head. “Well, given a choice, I'd like someone taller, and broader in the chest, but more importantly, I'd like someone... someone kind. Zelgadis is always so bitter and sarcastic. I'd rather be with a man who really believes in something, who's trying to be a good person. And maybe – some people just know how to be happy. G- one man I liked, he's been through all kinds of things, but he's still smiling...”

“Aww...” Blanche smiled her lazy, teasing smile. “How sweet. Sounds to me like it should be you to go after the Prince, instead of me.”

Sylphiel made a confused denial. She hadn't been thinking of the Phil-sama at all! And he was her liege lord, and her friend's father, and...

“I think it's perfectly understandable,” Blanche insisted. “You lost your mother when you were young, spent the rest of the time hanging out with your father the high priest and the senior clerics, lost your father...no wonder you're drawn toward more... mature types... ah, you know I'm only teasing, Sylphiel. You go ahead and like whomever you like.”

Sylphiel murmured something appropriate, but the conversation left her shaken for days.

 

******

 

Prince Phil gritted his teeth. The Premier of Yorgopolis was in Seyruun, and talks were not going well. The Premier insisted on having a pair of giant bodyguards with him at all times, there to loom menacingly over the entire meeting table and, at particularly tense moments, to have their amulets light up as if preparing for attack. After the first time, Phil assigned Zelgadis to lurk, even more menacingly, in the corner of the room just within the Premier's field of vision. Within this unfriendly space, the Premier, a lanky man with grooves on either side of his mouth and a fussy demeanor, aired a long and muddled list of complaints, demands and threats. Seyruun must promise to join Yorgopolis in alliance against Ruginvald. The import taxes for Yorgian goods must be lowered, and the Seyruuni guards along the border must be withdrawn to a more reasonable number. The Yorgian taxes against Seyruuni imports were not being correctly assessed, and the Seyruuni border guards must do more about smugglers. If the Seyruuni forces currently stationed in Yorgopolis did not immediately stop bossing everyone around and interfering in local affairs, the Yorgians would tear up their treaty and ally themselves with Ruginvald. “We must see greater parity in relations between our countries,” the Premier concluded, “And we must have stronger assurance that--”

“Premier,” Phil interrupted, “One drunken Marquis getting thrown in the embassy holding cells for a few hours by some soldiers breaking up a brawl does not constitute 'interfering in local affairs.' Especially when said Marquis then tries to hit on his arresting officer.”

The Premier rolled on over the top of him. “...assurance that the terms of the treaty will be adhered to. To that end, we have drafted, for your consideration, an offer of marriage between Her Royal Highness Amelia Wil Tesla di Seyruun, and his Imperial Distinction Freddy Maximilian Constantine Percival von Yorga...

Prince Phil stood up and glowered. “Enough,” he said. Well, shouted, he supposed. “What are you playing at, Premier? The terms of the current treaty already require much less of Yorgopolis than of Seyruun, for Justice demands that those with greater wealth than their neighbors be charitable. Yet those in a lesser position are not excused the requirement to strive against adversity. I will not be making any changes to the treaty while I continue to learn of corruption in the Yorgian justice system and oppression of peaceful minorities by greedy landholders.”

“If you don't wish us to side with Ruginvald...”

“Every war is tragic and, I believe, unnecessary,” Phil insisted, “However, even you and Ruginvald together are no match for the might of Seyruun when Justice is on our side. We have no intention of conquest, and we will not attack you, but if we find we must take action, Victory will be ours.” The Premier opened his mouth but Phil wasn't finished. “However, if, within the current terms of the treaty, you wish to outline a plan by which we may withdraw troops from the border and yet take increased action against smugglers, I am all attention. Justice must never be compromised in the interests of petty efficiency, but efficiency in the service of Justice is praiseworthy.”

The Premier fluttered his fingers as though shaking something distasteful off the ends of them and drew himself up stiffly. “I believe this discussion is at an end for now,” he hissed. “If you come to a more appropriate frame of mind before I return to Yorgopolis on Moonday, we may talk again.”

By protocol, it was for Phil, as host, to declare the meeting finished, but the arrogant little twerp had already been so insulting that Phil wasn't going to mention it. “If you find yourself able to explain what your actual problem is, I will be glad to hear from you.” He nodded, curtly, and stepped away from the table, turning his back on the Premier, to help himself to refreshments from the table that had been set up between two of the columns of the Great Audience Chamber. He had offered them to the Premier before; he did not do so now. He heard the other man's footsteps rapping on the floor as a footman murmured him on his way. Phil let out a single 'Hah!' of combined frustration and victory, and did a brisk circuit around the chamber, stretching his muscles and talking briefly with the various attendants. Zelgadis, whose hearing was acute and memory retentive, recited a _precis_ of the Premier's subvocalizations during the tense meeting. Marcus, his Seneschal, had a list of items to look into further, in the increasingly likely event of war. Phil went over to the little alcove where Sylphiel-san had secreted herself, fading into the stonework, to work the anti-spy spells. Phil noted with some pleasure that his daughter's friend seemed to be settling very well into her new life here. There was color in her cheeks, now, and a certain dignity in her bearing; her cape with its broad epaulettes no longer looked as if it might engulf her at any moment. “A good morning's work, eh, Sylphiel-san?” He didn't really expect an answer; he was merely preening. She gave him one, nonetheless. 

“No, sir.”

 _“No?”_ Prince Phil stopped dead in his circuit of the room. “You don't think the Premier of Yorgopolis needed putting in his place?

Sylphiel's voice shook, but she held her ground. “I believe... I believe you may have m-missread him, sir. He wasn't blustering out of arrogance, but because he knows he's outmatched, and he's afraid Yorgopolis will end up a subject province of Seyruun if he's not careful. If you keep pressing him, he'll have to dig in his heels.”

Phil snorted automatically but then his brain caught up with him. He replayed the list of the Premier's demands in the context the young mage had just provided, and realized, to his chagrin, that they made much more sense that way. And replaying his own actions... by Cephied! He'd been just as arrogant and pushy as the Premier! He'd been letting his ego get in the way. He laughed. Oh, the pitfalls humans fell into when the petty desire for worldly power obscured the light of Justice! “Bless you,” he crowed, “I think you may be right about that, Sylphiel-san. I'll have to do something about that...”

Sylphiel ducked her head politely and tried to fade back into her post in the archway.

“And Sylphiel-san?'

“Sir?”

“Thanks for speaking up.”

 

*******

 

An hour later, much to Sylphiel's relief, the Premier was stroking his chin thoughtfully as Prince Phil expounded, in his most conciliatory roar: “We don't do dynastic marriages in Seyruun, you see, as a rule. It's too important for the crown prince or princess to have a partner they can rely on. How can you serve love and justice if you can't get along with your own spouse? However, I quite agree that stronger ties between Seyruun and Yorgopolis would be good for both countries. Suppose, instead of a marriage contract, we looked at adoption? The Seyruun royal family traditionally adopts one baby for every one born to us.”

“The opportunities for Yorgopolis are a little more limited in that instance, wouldn't you say?” But the Premier was engaged, now, no longer defensive.

“Amelia,” Prince Phil pointed out, “was born to a family in Atlas City, and now she is my heir. And _yes,_ she does still know her Atlastic grandparents as well as her Seyruuni ones.” Sylphiel in her corner blinked at this piece of information. It seemed in keeping with the warmth and generosity of the Seyruun royal family, and also with their fondness for extreme gestures. Why did it surprise her so? She would have much to meditate upon when she returned to the temple that night.

Zelgadis caught her eye as they left their respective stations, after the meeting concluded. “Interesting negotiations today.” He smiled a very small smile. He had to know just how big a problem they had dodged when the Premier calmed down.

“Yes...” Sylphiel sighed and then tilted her head a little. “Zelgadis-san, do- do you find it hard to listen to talk about Amelia getting married?” Trying to pry into Zel's feelings was a dangerous business, but Sylphiel was genuinely curious, and besides, Amelia would be grateful for the information later.

The chimera went very still. “Does it bother _you_ when people talk about her father marrying again?”

Sylphiel flinched. “Why would it? The Prince has been very kind, and I admire him very much as a leader, but...”

Zelgadis gave her a narrow look. “You start blushing every time one of you walks into a room where the other one is, and every time he looks in your direction, and every time someone mentions him to you. His Highness has no idea that your cheeks aren't always bright pink.” Zelgadis smiled very dryly. “He believes Seyruun has been very beneficial to your health.”

Sylphiel looked at her feet. “I suppose it has been,” she said, and fled.

 

****

“You want to watch yourself around that young lady,” Lord Christopher warned – whether in his capacity as brother or counselor, Phil wasn't quite certain. “Some of the court bellwethers are starting to sniff around and whisper about favoritism.”

Phil snorted. “I haven't done Sylphiel-san any favors she hasn't earned. She just saved us from a war in there, you realize. And no information leaks traced back to her in all this time doing the anti-spy spells. And she helped save Amelia- and probably the world- back in Sairaag, and that suggestion about training the guards... Citizen commendations are up more than thirty percent in the last year! They're getting commendations from people whose _children_ they _arrested!”_

Chris spread his hands in a placating gesture. “My brother, I didn't say a word about her not being deserving. Just about what the court is saying. You need to either back off enough to get the vipers' attention off her or promote her high enough to give her some authority to defend herself with.” Chris paused. “Or start courting her properly; that would give her an official status too.”

“C- court her?” Phil spluttered. He didn't get surprised by much any more, but he hadn't seen that one coming.

His brother looked amused. “It wouldn't be a hard match to sell, as these things go. As daughter to the late High Priest of Sairaag, she has Temple connections. She has the magic. She's young enough to provide you with a few more heirs, and, as you have pointed out, her conduct is entirely steady. Also,” Chris smirked in a way that was entirely brotherly and not at all courtly, “you talk about her a great deal more often than you think you do. Very few people in the court would be surprised.”

“I couldn't do that to the girl!” Phil exclaimed, still shocked.

“Being courted by a prince is not generally considered a bad thing,” Chris observed dryly.

“And if she isn't interested in having her friend's dad force his attentions on her? She's a dependent – what ground could she stand on? Even if she trusts me not to make her employment an issue, there's the rest of the court. And she's far too young for me. No, this is one of those times when a higher morality must be sought than the desires of one man.”

“If you say so, brother.” But Christopher noted to himself that Phil had, more or less, admitted to being drawn to the lady. “As Minister of Healthy Paranoia, though, I have to point out that I've been trying to get you to consider finding another wife, or at least adopting another kid or two, ever since Amelia ran away with Lina-San that first time. Since Alf- since the assassination scare – which you made a lot worse than it had to be, by the way – I have been _desperately_ trying to get you to do something about it. From my point of view, the fact that this lady is unlikely to say no is one of the advantages of the match.”

Phil reared his head back and snorted. Chris had done. For now.

 

****

 

Madame Hester, like the prince's brother, had been making observations and coming to conclusions. She called Sylphiel to her office. “You've been looking tired and sad lately, Sylphiel-san.”

Sylphiel ducked her head a little. “Sorry, ma'am.”

“Nothing to be sorry about!” Hester snapped. “Third rule of Healing, Sylphiel. Don't neglect the healer. You've been working hard, both in the palace and out in the district clinics, and I think you need a bit of a rest. The High Wells temple, up in the Ghibli hills, has put in a request for assistance for a temporary project – something to do with organizing a new cache of scrolls that someone left them. It's a contemplative order, very quiet and beautiful, without all the court politics to deal with. Would you like the assignment? It would probably take you through the summer.”

Sylphiel's eyes lit. “Oh, yes! Thank you ma'am!” A vacation in the hills, even a working vacation, sounded so lovely and restful. No Blanche around to make upsetting jokes, no intense diplomatic situations to bear witness to, no slums. Sylphiel hated to admit it, but she found the work at the district clinics distressing. The rough people, used to having to fight for every scrap, came to the clinics still truculent and shouting, glaring at the clerics who helped them as if they might withhold their services if not threatened. Once helped, their thanks were either grudging or else exhausting in their fervor. Sylphiel concluded, reluctantly, that she might actually be a snob, as Blanche occasionally implied. After all, she never had trouble with the Prince's energy level. But then, the Prince was one man, and she'd seen him in quiet moods, too. The clinic sometimes seemed full of Phils, all of them angry.

The summer was a quiet one for almost everyone. Amelia, with Zelgadis in tow, went on a quest to track down Lina Inverse again, at the behest of a foreign envoy who needed a favor. Prince Phil ran Seyruun and made occasional state visits elsewhere. When he visited the Street of the Miracles in Yoropolis, he was tickled, as many foreign visitors were, by the profusion of little charms for sale made in the shapes of various body parts, to be offered at the temples to solicit help for the affected part or offer thanks for help given. The Crown Prince of Seyruun chose a toe, carved in ivory, though what he did with it afterward no one thought to ask. The gossips were far more interested in why, exactly, he seemed so sulky at the wedding of his friend Colonel Brandon, who had at last won the heart of Lady Eleanor's younger sister. He'd made a couple of noises about the age difference between the couple, but less equal matches were made every day! That couldn't be it, surely...

Sylphiel, moving steadily and quietly through her days at the High Wells temple, organized papers and meditated, found a collection of fairy tales in the little temple library and reread them. Usually her favorite was _The Silent Sister and the Swans,_ but this time she found herself most drawn to _The Bride of the Beast._ The Beast, she knew, would have bristling black whiskers, a nose like a potato, and a voice like a crow. He would be transformed into a prince with blue-gray eyes and golden hair down to his feet, because Sylphiel always thought of fairy-tale princes as looking a bit like Gourry, even now. She tried to be attentive to the real-life young men who came up to the temple to have a look a the new Shrine maiden, but they were just not very interesting; even the thoughtful ones seemed to make thinking into a kind of contest – who could read the most sutras, who could make the most improbable argument from them – and the strong ones did the same with their strength. Sylphiel felt that she was being pulled in as the latest prize in a decades-long rivalry between the various village boys, less important for herself than for being able to judge Who Won this time. Lucy would have been delighted. Sylphiel was not. Given the choice, though, she still would have preferred to spend the summer listening to the villagers contend than to be summoned, as she was, to try and help save Seyruun from certain destruction.

*****

The city, when she flew in with the rest of the High Wells temple staff, was in an orderly panic. They'd had to fly the last few leagues because the roads were clogged with fleeing refugees. Sylphiel spotted one vaguely familiar cleric actually perching in a tree, watching, looking impossibly comfortable while holding a crooked staff with a huge red stone. When she berated him for laziness when so many people needed help, he'd smiled and told her he'd been assigned to surveillance. The guard's training ground was a sea of white, as squadrons arrived, were sorted out, rearranged, and deployed. Sylphiel expected to be sent to one of the district clinics again, to handle incoming wounded, but instead Colonel Brandon stuck her along the South Wall, with the other strong mages. “Physical attacks only, and don't try to hit the beast itself; it absorbs everything it touches. We want Daug Hauts, Windy Shield, Blast Ash, anything to make it harder to cross the ground,” he rattled off as Sylphiel and a lot of turbaned guards stood listening. And then they filed up to wall and took their places, Sylphiel with the rest. Her heartbeat steadied. She might not be in uniform, but she and the guards were united in their purpose and in their love for the city. She felt strong. Amelia and her friends swung by briefly and greeted her, but they would be the attack squad; they had even less time than Sylphiel did for gossip. Gourry carried something that looked like the Sword of Light. Hadn't that been destroyed, over a year ago? Well, obviously not. That was rumors for you. There was no _time._ “First wave, Daug Haut!” Colonel Brandon bellowed. “Positioooons! Begiiiin Chant!” The signal to let go was a dropping flag. A wave of voices concluded their incantations in unison. The South Meadows became a forest of stone spikes. The sky had grown dark. A faint, sickly glow, far to the south, marked the arrival of the Zanafar. Sylphiel squared her shoulders, closed her eyes in concentration, and chanted along with her fellow mages. 

 

The beast, when it came into full view, made her knees buckle. It was so much bigger than the one that had attached itself to Copy Rezo. So much stranger. Lina-san and the rest darted around it like dragonflies. The beast roared and Sylphiel smelled miasma; she tried not to think what it might be doing to them all; everyone on the South Wall would be more subject to tumors and other illnesses now... A hand clapped on her shoulder, muffled by the pads of her cape. “Squadron change, Sylphiel-san” one of the guards told her, “Head back to the North Wall, wash your face and grab some food – even a rest, if you can manage it.” The little attack group was trying to encase the Zanafar in ice. Sylphiel couldn't bear to look. She pounded down the stairs and across the central courtyard. At the north wall, she told the mob of frustrated cooks what she had seen of the battle so far- very few people lingered in the kitchens if they could scramble some other vantage point for themselves. Sylphiel drank tea and looked out one of the windows – the north roads still looked like dark, swollen rivers, with all the evacuating city folk moving away as fast as they could. She dimly heard the Prince's voice through a loudspeaker, even hoarser than usual. “... in an orderly fashion...” Why was he not watching the battle? _Because the glory of the city is its people._ He'd said that in meetings, more than once. And he wasn't a mage. So he'd gone where he could do the most good. How like him... Sylphiel clasped her hands at her breastbone, praying. Under the thick fabric of her basque, she could feel the lump of the locket she always wore, her last memento of home. It held a woven braid of hair, her father's and mother's both together, and a... Sylphiel sat bolt upright. She would not go back to the wall until after the battle was over, if then. Because she had a seed of the Holy Tree Flagoon with her, and she had a germination spell to perform.

 

****

 

At the Feast – the series of them, actually – commemorating the defeat of the Zanafar, everyone clapped and cheered for Sylphiel to honor the gift of the new Holy tree – tiny sapling that it was, even with magic to help. But they clapped longer and louder for the Four – Five, counting the funny little talking teddy bear that turned out to be the Prince of Lost Taforashia – who had slain the beast. By the time the food arrived on the tables, Sylphiel had been forgotten again, just as she preferred, and she slipped away as soon as she could, wafted through the crowds of celebrating townsfolk until she got back to Central Temple. Madame Hester, looking more harried than usual, found her meditating in the main sanctuary. “Sylphiel-san, remind me to talk to you later about the Tree. Have you seen Blanche?”

“No, why?” 

“Idiot.” Hester muttered, but she didn't seem to mean Sylphiel. “Her things are gone,” Hester informed her,  
“and she left a note. You might as well read it; it's addressed to you.”

 _Dear Syl,_ the note said. _I bet you never thought I'd say I looked up to you, did you? But it's true, I do. Amelia told me once that you'd left Sairaag instead of staying to rebuild because you needed to follow your True Love, even though it didn't work out between you in the end. But you still were brave enough to leave everything behind for that hope, and you really do amazing things, you know? I'm going to do the same thing. Ever since I laid eyes on him when he came to ask the Court for help finding Lina Inverse, I have known that Inspector Weizier Freon of Ruginvald was the only one for me. I'm going out into the world to find him again. And if he doesn't want me I hope I make something of myself the way you have. But I think I'll be able to make him want me. My best wishes to you and Lucy and Ann and even old Wrinkles,_

_Blanche._

****

She had a room in the palace now. The new Flagoon seedling needed tending at odd hours, and she had enough other miscellaneous duties there now that it just made sense. Sylphiel made more friends at the palace than she had in the Temple, which made no sense at all on the surface of it, since she'd hated the ambitious plotting at the Temple and the quantity of that sort of thing going on in the palace was easily tenfold. Even so, there were plenty of people there who just.... did jobs, as she did herself. A portly fellow called Samuel, who endeared himself to Sylphiel by backing off at once when she objected to his pinching her bottom and never trying again, spent much of his time going through piles of paper and compiling careful and fairly accurate projections of the costs of all of the Prince's high-flown ideas, and of the size of the various available revenue streams. In his spare time he composed music. A Lady Russell, whose husband did Something With The Printers' Guild, took Syphiel under her wing after overhearing a conversation in which several court ladies vied with each other to coin extravagant praises for their ruler and Sylphiel, when pressed, said simply, “He's a good man. He'd just... good.” After that, Lady Russel started inviting her to things. Poetry readings, musicales, tea with other courtiers who read books and thought about things and argued and laughed. Other people whose entire store of clothing fit into one wardrobe. (Not that this could be said of Lady Russel herself.) It was Lady Russel who introduced Sylphiel to the palace librarian and got permission for Sylphiel to go into the stacks at any time of day or night. Sylphiel was most grateful for this added boon, especially when she had trouble going to sleep.

It was the smell that got her, Sylphiel decided. For so long, there had been only one Zanafar and one Holy tree. The sweet, sharp scent of the leaves of Flagoon, undercut by the faint bitterness of the miasma from the fallen beast, together, they were the smell of home. By day, a whiff of this familiar scent as she went about her duties in Seyruun was welcome, comforting. It brought her memories of carefree childhood games under the roots of the great Tree, of her first encounters with the Holy Spirit of the Healing Mother as she began her training. At night, though, the memories that surfaced were the other ones. Houses and faces crumbling to ashes before her eyes, the dreadful, haunting temptations of a city full of revenants, her father's ghost telling her to let him go. Sometimes, rubbing a little lavender or rosemary oil on her upper lip at bedtime helped. Others, she woke screaming or sobbing in the darkest hours of the night and was unable to get back to sleep. When that happened, she made her way to the palace library and tried to read herself into calm. Poetry was good for that, as long as she stayed away from the sagas, or some of the dustier philosophers who ignored questions of love and justice to look at abstruse questions like, “are the gods generated by the nature of the worlds they oversee, or do the same gods preside over all the worlds, merely altering their forms as they present themselves to mortals?” In her sleep-deprived state, Sylphiel didn't have a hope of following their arguments, but the philosophers' bone-deep certainty that they had the time and leisure to discuss such questions was in itself comforting. She rubbed her eyes. A few more pages, maybe, and she'd be able to go back to bed for an hour or two. Beyond the candlelight, the shadows of the library looked weirdly bulky and menacing. Maybe she'd just curl up on one of the couches and not brave the halls. Or maybe she'd just keep reading.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something tall, in white flapping robes like those the Red Priest's copy had worn. She could hear it slavering. Sylphiel gasped and jerked herself upright, and saw a face that did not look like the Red priest's at all. “Tig?” the man said, blinking confusion, and then, as it recovered itself, Sylphiel realized she was looking at Phil-sama, wearing his white sleeping robes and with his mustaches unwaxed and drooping. “Ah. Sylphiel-san,” he greeted her in a rasping whisper. “Sorry to startle you; I thought you were someone else for a moment. Are you all right?”

“Oh.” Sylphiel took a few deep breaths. “Yes, sir. Sorry sir, I just... I have trouble sleeping sometimes, you see, and...”

He waved this away. “No, no,” he said in his normal boom, “that's quite all right,” and then he seemed to remember himself and lowered his voice back down to the whisper. “I was doing something of the same sort myself. Shall I fetch you some water? Tea?”

Syphiel shook her head, horrified at the thought of her liege lord putting himself out on her account. “Oh, no, sir, not at all. If- if you'd like me to leave you alone I'll--”

“Please don't.” He sounded... almost frightened. “Go ahead and have a seat again. No reason we can't keep each other company, eh? Or if you want to go back to reading, that's fine, too. I like having people about me, you know.”

“All right...” Sylphiel sat, a bit reluctantly, and bent her head back toward the book. Prince Phil grabbed another book – one of the poetry volumes Sylphiel had discarded, and flung himself into one of the chairs nearby. He read for a moment or two, but his foot tapped restlessly, and Sylphiel was not surprised when he set the book down again and turned toward her.

“Problems sleeping, eh? Troubles on your mind?”

“No, sir, just old memories.”

“Ah.” Prince Phil nodded his shaggy head. “Those do seem to come out around this time of night, don't they? For a moment there, when I first saw you, I was twenty years old and looking at my wife again. Silly of me, really. You don't look a thing like her.”

“No, sir.” Sylphiel had seen the portraits. Princess Consort Antigone Noisette nels Tesla di Seyruun had had bright blue eyes, and chestnut hair, longer than Amelia's but shorter than Sylphiel's, and a busty build.

“She used to sit just there, though,” Prince Phil reminisced, “when she was waiting for me to finish up some late night strategy session or negotiation. I'd come in all full of whatever had happened during the day, and she'd sit and listen as I rattled on... she had a way of saying things, sometimes, that made everything seem clear when I was confused. I miss her still, her vision and her sense of calm...”

“She sounds like a good woman, sir.”

“Of course!” Phil-sama forgot to whisper again. “I wouldn't have loved her if she hadn't been!” But then he shook his head. “My first real failure, that was. I was determined to root out evil in the court and in my city. I underestimated how hard my enemies would push back. I didn't even ask the sorcerers to activate the extra wards... And now, when I remember her, I always remember the end, too.” His eyes under the bushy brows were damp, and he snuffled.

Sylphiel considered this. “The way I heard it, sir, nothing the sorcerers could have done would have helped much.”

He shrugged, bearishly. “Long past time to stop dwelling on it now, either way. I was young. I made sure her death didn't count for nothing; I learned from it. I had a dream once, where she told me she forgave me, and I choose to believe it's true.”

“I'm sure it is, sir. As I know my father forgave me for hiding the Blessed Blade.”

He grinned at her. “And you've been learning, too, Sylphiel-san! I've noticed how much your magic has improved since you first came here.”

“Thank you sir... I just, I hope it's enough. I do my best, but then I see Lina-san going up against something like the Zanafar...”

His highness thumped the table with one flat hand. “None of that, young lady. A very wise young cleric told me once, we're only human, and as long as we are giving our very best to the service of Justice and Righteousness, it doesn't matter how weak we may be.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sylphiel repeated quietly. It seemed to her that this most unexpected audience was drawing to a close, but His Highness showed no signs of wishing to go, or wishing her to. He sat and tugged at his mustache, turning the pages of the poetry book too quickly to actually be reading any of the poems. Sylphiel took a deep breath and prepared to be daring. “Sir?”

“Eh?”

“Sir, are you... worried about something? Is that why you're up so late?”

His cawing laugh had a bitter twist to it. “Worried? Hah. No. Haunted by a few bad memories, like yourself, miss. Go back to bed if you like, the poets will keep me company.”

“Memories of your wife, sir?”

He shook his head. “Tig, I believe, has forgiven me. No, the one that hurts is what I did to my daughter.”

“To Amelia?” Sylphiel couldn't imagine what he might have done to his beloved girl that hurt him so. Amelia was doing just fine, and the two of them loved each other to bits.

“To her elder sister. Aurelia.” He glowered at the book. 

Sylphiel remained silent, shocked. The elder princess was known throughout the land as a traitor, a twisted, evil, ungrateful person. 

“And all without meaning any harm at all,” His Highness sighed. “After we lost Tig, you see, I threw myself into the improvement of the kingdom. I needed it to be a better place than it was, to make it worthy of the sacrifices it takes to keep it running. And I was strict with the girls. I taught them to do just as I did, to keep themselves busy, recite affirmations to cheer themselves up, keep pushing, keep fighting... it worked very well, for Amelia and me. Relli, though...” He took a rasping breath and blinked. “If I'd just... If I'd let myself quiet down, now and then. If I'd let her cry – let her see me cry, even, instead of pushing her away whenever she acted too sad, as if it were a sin and not the most natural thing in the world... Only I hurt so much myself I couldn't stand to see her hurting, too... and then she started using drinks and potions and things to try and kill the pain I wouldn't let her show... and then that oil-tongued mazoku promised her eternal happiness if she'd swear a Pact with it. The choice was an evil choice, but I was the one who pushed her into it... and for that, there is no forgiveness possible.” Sylphiel could only watch as Prince Philionel El Di Seyruun, Crown Prince Regent of the City of Seyruun and the surrounding counties, cradled his head in his arms and sobbed. 

After a moment or two, tentatively, she went over to him and patted him on his massive shoulder. It felt just like any other mass of live muscle – on a horse, or something. It seemed to Sylphiel that Phil-sama's passion and agony should have been something one could feel on the fingers. But the shoulder remained a shoulder. The prince showed no sign of noticing her gentle touch, and after another moment, Sylphiel started massaging his neck, instead. The tendons were tight as bowstrings. His bushy hair was unexpectedly soft, almost like thick fur. She froze a moment in shock, dismayed that she would let herself think such a thing when her lord needed her, and then went back to rubbing his neck while he cried himself out. Sylphiel hadn't been able to save Sairaag, either time, but she did know healing, at least. After a few minutes, her patient let out a great whooshing sigh and began to straighten up. Sylphiel backed off at once and proffered a handkerchief.

His highness blew his nose and made a couple of ineffectual attempts at cleaning residual goo out of his mustache. “Look at me,” he rasped, “keeping you up with this nonsense. I'm very sorry, Sylphiel-san. I shouldn't be burdening you with my ghosts.”

Sylphiel looked at him. “I'm honored, sir, that you would trust me with them.”

 

****

It was only a month or two after that fraught midnight meeting in the library that word came from the princess: the City of Taforashia had been awakened from enchantments. Send aid and especially medicine. The temples of Seyruun sprang into action with much more alacrity than they would have, had they fully understood the connection between the plague-ridden city and the arrival of the Zanafar. Prince Phil was in his element, roaring commands and gleefully doubling the size of the piles of goods being sent over the border, exhorting workers and healers into zeal for their tasks. Sylphiel joined in the bustle at a slight remove, sorting out needed herbs, making sure aid workers remembered to bring changes of clothing and spare mortars and pestles, checking inventories – anything where she could work steadily at a helpful task and not have to talk too much to anyone. She would travel with the healers, of course, because she, of all people, would want the city rebuilt if it could be rebuilt, but the Durum Plague was not amenable to magical cures, and so her most useful skills were the mundane ones. She wasn't sorry. She sorted, and marked checklists, and thought about the Prince's advice about the ways that simply trying to help the cause of justice could be healing. Taforashia offered a confirmation of the concept. An aura of deep joy suffused the vine-encrusted city and its weak, but smiling, inhabitants, and the people who had come to help them. Even the prickly and melancholy Zelgadis seemed to have found a kind of peace there.

 _This is all right, this life,_ Sylphiel thought contentedly. _I don't mind doing this._ She heard Gourry-sama's voice raised in a cheerful bellow. “This is some great food!” he crowed, and Sylphiel smiled, because he'd said the same thing to her so often, once upon a time. He never had loved her, she realized, and the pang of the realization was much less than she would have thought. She had imagined he did, because her own feelings had to be so strong before she could speak, or act, but Gourry was transparent as crystal. If he showed a sort of mild kindness to her, that was because a mild kindness was what he felt. And now that she had her own life, Sylphiel was more willing to take that for what it was. She no longer needed to imagine some man's grand passion to give her life its worth. And, handsome though he was, Gourry did sometimes seem just a little... insipid? A life with Gourry, had she happened into it, would have been a shallow simulacrum of the real thing. _What is deep, as love is deep, I'll have deeply. What is good, as love is good, I'll have well._ Not that it wouldn't be nice to have... someone... but there were other deep things, other good things, besides love. Sylphiel had lucked into a position working for a good leader whose idealism matched her own, where she might find herself saving the lives of a city full of people on any given day. If she didn't have a chance at love, she could get along just fine on Justice.

*****

Amelia was gone on a quest of vital and mysterious import. Again. Zelgadis had gone with her. Again. Sylphiel more or less assumed that Lina and Gourry would involve themselves too, somehow. Life in Seyruun went on. Sylphiel continued her regular work. Tending the new Holy Tree. Healing injured guardsmen. Fire drills. Tsunami drills. Invasion drills. Mazoku drills. Casting the anti-spy shields at meetings. In her spare time, she attended the occasional tea or musicale and petted Lady Russel's lapdogs, running her fingers through their long, thick fur and feeling vaguely melancholy. The prince would nod at her courteously if their paths crossed, and she would bow. They maintained separate friendships with Lady Russel. On the rare occasions that he and Sylphiel attended the same social events, she said nothing, to him nor to anyone else. She fondly hoped her private, hopeless pining over the man went unnoticed as well as unmentioned. After all, even when Phil-sama did not attend Lady Russel's gatherings, Sylphiel spoke at only one in four of them, at most. Why go to the effort of talking unless one had something meaningful to say?

The meetings for which she held the anti-spy shields now were the frightfully confidential ones. Not just the diplomatic negotiations, but the ones dealing with the internal workings of the City. Master Samuel, whose reports were as excellent and his fanny-pinching as inveterate as ever, had gotten in over his head with a chambermaid. Mistress Samuel wanted the girl sacked. The maid's father, vice-master of the Greengrocer's Guild, wanted Master Samuel sacked. Prince Phil was distressed at everyone's lack of control, Samuel, chambermaid, parents, and all. Lord Christopher dithered between the need for a stern show of morality and the need for Samuel's financial reports, which continued to be the most useful in Seyruun. Sylphiel, listening to the fourth or fifth iteration of the facts from her alcove, cleared her throat, then felt her cheeks heating under the combined gaze of every other pair of eyes in the room. “Erm,” she said, “Samuel-san made a play for me, once, but he backed off as soon as I said no. Did Miss Dot know that she could say no?”

Two weeks later, Samuel had been transferred to the offices of the Admiralty, where he attended to port taxes and navy personnel costs. Miss Dot had been gifted with a generous severance bonus and hired on at Lady Russel's. The head Chatelaine and the Butler assembled all the palace servants and issued clear instructions for what one must do if offered unwanted advances on the job. One of Samuel's assistants, who had told Miss Dot that her continued employ at the palace depended on her keeping Master Samuel happy, had been sacked. And the number of people who thought all of this upheaval was Sylphiel's fault disturbed her greatly. She hadn't made a single decision or unearthed a single fact. All she'd done was ask a question! And she couldn't think where anyone else had heard about that, even!

Nonetheless, for some little time after the Samuel incident, a bewildering number of people suddenly became interested in inviting Sylphiel to informal social gatherings, or offering “a word in your ear, Sylphiel-san,” as she made her way down one corridor or another, or asking if they might do her a favor some time, or pretending they had known her father. Sylphiel responded as simply as she knew how, and asked Lady Russel for advice whenever she felt like she was in over her head. (“just keep doing as you're doing,” she'd advised. “Perhaps someday, when you know what you want and are ready to ask for it, you can start trading favors.”) She supposed the whole thing would die down soon enough once some other scandal took precedence in the minds of the courtiers. That couldn't come soon enough for Sylphiel. The day her way to the Flagoon Sapling was blocked by no fewer than eight idlers and hangers-on, all of them wanting gossip or flirtation or her signature on a petition she didn't agree with, she lost her temper.

“DIEM WIND!” And all eight courtiers were sprawled on the ground or sitting on their bottoms, panting in startlement. Sylphiel barreled past them before they could do more than squeak. Once she was clear of the crowd, she turned on her heel and glared at them all. “Tending Flagoon is a real thing that actually needs to happen at certain times, like taking bread out of the oven. If the Sapling fails, the miasma will spread over the town and _kill all of us!_ So take your political games somewhere _else!”_ She turned again and hurried on to the tree, ignoring sounds of mounting outrage behind her. Even when the grumbles were overlain by a sound like a great, open-throated laugh, she didn't turn around. She had things to do. And she'd probably been imagining the laugh, anyway.

 

People did finally stop bothering Sylphiel, except for one or two outliers who simply liked to keep an eye on absolutely everything in the palace, and would never give up on Sylphiel now that she had come to their attention. That wasn't so bad, though. They were old players at the game; their machinations were unobtrusive and in proportion to Sylphiel's actual degree of power, which was … well, maybe not quite nil. Lord Christopher approached her at one of Lady Russel's card parties and let her know how to get in touch with the Ministry of Healthy Paranoia, any time she had an intuition she didn't feel comfortable sharing in public. She decided she rather liked the Prince's brother, which was nice because – well, it was nice because Phil-sama trusted him, and if she hadn't liked one of his inner circle, she would have worried, ridiculous as that was. She kept having to remind herself that the Prince wasn't actually young, just energetic, and that his idealism was not naïve, but chosen. She didn't have to remind herself that her crush on him was useless, but she'd dealt with useless crushes before. She was fine, really.

*****

“It'll be fine, really!” Phil promised Lord Christopher. “Amelia executes her duties very well -” (“When she's here at all,” Chris muttered) “and is already beginning to identify people she can trust, inside the palace and out. She's coming into her own. Besides, she has years yet before she'll need to take my place; at least fifteen or twenty of them.”

“Fifteen or twenty more years means another ten or twelve times she might end up fighting the end of the world, at the current rate,” Chris countered, “which is why I would like to see another heir or two to fall back on. Whether it's you or your daughter who does so is moot, so far as I'm concerned, but neither of you is making any move in that direction.”

“If the world ends, the succession question will be entirely moot.”

“The question of your happiness, however, is not.” Chris placed himself in front of his brother and crossed his arms.

“I know you, Phil. You were never happier than the times when your wife and girls were with you, all taking care of each other. What are you doing now? Juggling, that's what. Haunting the dovecote for news of your daughter, going to horrible political soirees and negotiating, stomping around the guards' training grounds and working yourself stupid. Even if you won't consider having more children, you should consider taking a wife again, if only because then it will be your duty to spend some time relaxing with her. If you keep trying to fill your days with other people's jobs, the kingdom will suffer for it.”

“I'll be fine!” Phil repeated.

 

*****

Sylphiel settled herself into her usual alcove before the meeting started, ready to cast the anti-spy shields as soon as everyone was here. Today, they were finalizing the agenda for an upcoming visit by envoys from Zephilia. The only reason Sylphiel was there, so far as she knew, was because there were more than three high-ranking officials present. Having the spy-shields up at every meeting helped make it less obvious when they were really important. In the meantime, Lady Jennings stood next to the snack cart, slightly overfilling her plate as she explained something at great length in a low voice to Admiral Baldwin. Lord Christopher, already at the conference table, shuffled his notes. Prince Phil stood near a window, shoulders thrown back and arms folded across his chest, looking slightly more regal than the occasion warranted. Sylphiel admired him out of the corner of her eye and watched the doors for the arrival of Sir Lucas and Madame Eliott, who were representing most of the Guildmasters at this meeting. She liked Sir Lucas; he was good at defusing tense interactions and he seemed more aware than many of the nobles of how their decisions affected the common people.

The room went dark.

Not pitch-black, but a strange, sepia-toned half-light, full of shadows that loomed in unpredictable directions. A metallic, sawing laughter, like steel-wool against a rusted grate, sounded from four or five directions at once. “Mazoku!” Sylphiel cried, hurtling out of her alcove, “Everyone! To me!” While Sylphiel no longer produced “flare carrots,” her defensive skills were much stronger than her offensive, and in a situation like this, her job was to cover as many civilians as she could as she ushered everyone out of the danger zone. She sent two lightning balls flying out – one down the hall and one out the window Phil-sama had been standing near, tweaked to trip alarms deeper in the palace and summon help. The Prince and his brother stood back to back on a round rug near the door that had a basic protective spell woven into it; it wouldn't stand up against anything too high-level, but it would buy them some time. Admiral Baldwin had to scoot around the conference table to get there, slowed by Lady Jennings, who was still holding on to her plate of snacks and still talking.

“And what a mazoku thinks it's doing trying to manifest itself in the middle of the White Magic Capitol like this I don't know. A person would think they would have learned better by this time.”

“Please hurry, Ma'am!” Sylphiel panted, “Just set your plate on the table.” The laughter was growing louder, and Sylphiel still couldn't tell which direction it was coming from. She needed to get these people out the door before the thing tried to seal them off in some sort of pocket dimension. Doing so with this many non-mages was actually fairly tricky, but, as Lady Jennings said, this mazoku had emerged in the middle of the White Magic Capitol. Sylphiel would assume the worst until she had proof to the contrary. Admiral Baldwin tugged at Lady Jennings' sleeve and she bustled over to the rug. “All right,” Sylphiel said. “WINDY SHIELD!” A spinning bubble of air surrounded the five of them. “Everyone stick together! Let's start moving toward the door.” She stepped carefully backward, watching the center of the room, as they all started moving. The air felt thick as mud. The metallic laughter grew louder, and a shape appeared in front of Sylphiel, rising up out of the ground. It looked at first like the thatched roof of a peasant house, except only a couple of feet across. The strawlike cone rose atop a pale column of some fleshlike substance, decorated with two glittering black circles like a pair of smoked spectacles, and a single peak below them that made a sort of nose, though it looked more like a piece of taffy that has just been pulled off of another piece of taffy, with the thinnest part of itself curling back under. There did not seem to be a mouth. Sylphiel took another two steps back, herding her charges toward the door.

There was a grinding sound, and a circle of metal blades shaped like lobster claws sprouted up around the pale column, then grew upward on jointed metal stems, and then bent down to the floor, where they heaved in concert and brought the rest of the mazoku's physical projection into the room. The smooth white column (now wobbling as if it were made of tofu) sat in a tray or a ring of metallic spikes, under which ten or twelve spidery, jointed legs with those clawlike tips alternately tapped on the floor and waved. The conical hat brushed the ceiling of the room, and Sylphiel didn't know what had happened to the conference table. She took another step back. Only another foot or two to the door, not that the mazoku couldn't simply phase through the walls if it wanted, but every step toward freedom was a step in the right direction. She should have tried for a window, Sylphiel thought; cast Levitation and got everyone down the wall. But it was too late for that now. She took another step, and two deep breaths, concentrating on keeping the shield up.

The metallic laughter had a gluey note to it now. “You can't get away from the great Xannamas that easily!” The mazoku chortled. It lifted a single leg, and the lobster claw began to whirl, blurring into a brassy disc. Xannamas scuttled toward them on its other legs and set the spinning claw against the wall of the shield. There was a shriek and the disk sank halfway through the shield and then began to move. A black line followed behind the spinning disc.

“Th- that's impossible!” Syphiel gasped, still stepping backward. The whole point of Windy Shield was to use flowing energy that repaired itself; you couldn't just cut holes in it as if it were a piece of paper! Somewhere behind her she heard pounding footsteps on flagstones. Admiral Baldwin must have decided to risk ducking away from the wards in favor of speed. Or possibly Lord Christopher. Protocol dictated that non-mages should stay with their Warders until the threat was neutralized, but there was a time and a place for following protocol. The spinning disc retreated from the shield, leaving its impossible stick-straight breach behind, then approached again, at a right angle to the first cut, and started another line. Xannamas chuckled again. “Keep going, everyone!” Sylphiel demanded, “Let's aim for the servants' stairway just past the Blue Room. Once you get to the stairs, start running and get out as fast as you can!” Sylphiel would keep the mazoku distracted, she hoped. The spinning blade started on its third line, parallel to the first. The creature was cutting a door in her shield. Once she got the Prince and everyone to the stairs, she would drop the shield and cast Astral Vine instead. The metal claw pounded against its three-sided cut and knocked a piece of Sylphiel's shield out of place. The dislodged magic fell to the ground and dissolved in a puff of air. The claw stopped spinning; the jointed leg that held it began to telescope out, bringing the pincer closer and closer to Sylphiel. 

“Run!” She shrieked, and tried to follow her own advice, tried to cast Ray Wing or anything else that would give her a little bit of space to work with. But Xannamas laughed again and the claw closed on her arm. Sylphiel shrieked again at the pain. The blade wasn't sharp enough to cut through her cape or the sleeves of her cleric's garb, but it was plenty sharp enough to hurt, and then it jerked her up into the air. She felt something tear – she'd be lucky if it didn't dislocate her shoulder – and her feet left the ground. She whimpered and tried to gather her thoughts. Could she pull it together enough to cast Astral Vine? Fireball wouldn't do a thing...

“PACIFIST CRUUUSH!” A huge white blur hurtled past her and connected with the mazoku's central column with a thunk. The claw holding Sylphiel jerked slightly, doing still more damage to her shoulder. Over the sound of her own gasping breath, she heard Phil-sama roaring. DIPLOMATIC SOLUTIONS ELBOW STRIKE! KINDNESS TO ALL CREATURES KICK! 

_“Phil-sama, no!”_ He couldn't damage the mazoku this way, and he mustn't put himself in danger like this!

“GOODWILL TOWARD MEN SMASH!”

The claw spasmed open and Sylphiel fell to the ground. She clutched her shoulder and shook her head dizzily. “Please, sir! Get away!”

“FIST OF ETERANAL JUSTICE!” There was a crunching sound from the direction of Xannamas' hat. Sylphiel craned her neck, and to her relief saw His Highness tumbling in a controlled roll to the floor on the other side of the mazoku. Sylphiel tried to lever herself to her feet. She needed to heal her shoulder, but first she needed to get away.

“Heads!” someone shouted, and Sylphiel let herself fall back to the floor. Several voices simultaneously called, “Flare ARROW,” and the mazoku shrieked and scuttled backward. Sylphiel looked down the hall and saw three guards, amulets glowing, readying their next attack. Behind Xannamas, the doors to the conference room burst open and more guards poured out – they must have Levitated up to the window. In the next instant, six more Flare Arrows pierced the creature. The tofu column waggled, the spidery legs contracted, and it shrank down on itself to nothing. Four of the guards stepped carefully in, pulling diagnostic amulets out of their clothing, starting the automatic checks for mazoku residue and any sign that might explain how it had managed to appear where it did. One or two others went to the prince, who insisted in his booming rattle that he was just fine. Someone else – Lieutenant Fitzwilliam, wasn't it? Came to Sylphiel and started working on her shoulder. “Don't overspend yourself miss,” he soothed, “this will hold til you get back to the Temple. You may be one of our best healers, but you're not the only one.” Sylphiel collapsed in gratitude.

 

***

Sylphiel hadn't been in the Temple infirmary in quite a while, and never as a patient. Madame Hester worked grimly at her shoulder while Ann sat nearby and sobbed. “I'm so sorry! I'm so, so very sorry! I never meant anything like this to happen!”

Sylphiel blinked. “Er... what?”

“We believe Ann brought Xannamas' amulet into the palace,” Madame Hester growled.

“I didn't mean to!” Ann repeated “I didn't mean to go to the palace at all today! The- the merchant said it was an attraction spell – one strong enough to overwhelm even a skilled cleric... I was going to put it on and th- then go visit Doctor D-daviiis!” The last word came out in a long wail.

“Oh, go away!” Madame Hester made a shooing gesture. “Go back and talk to Colonel Brandon about that merchant; maybe he can figure something out about the people who were trying to sneak that thing in. They certainly couldn't have chosen a riper target.”

“Ma'am?” Sylphiel shrugged her shoulder experimentally. It still felt bruised, but she could actually move it.

“According to the research we were able to dig up, Xannamas likes to feed on... er- frustration,” Madame Hester explained. “Though it is as willing as any other mazoku to cause other kinds of chaos when given the opportunity. This time, it manifested in the Lower Courtyard and then headed straight up the tower – through the floors – until it came to the Prince.”

“I see...” Sylphiel thought a while. Had the mazoku been drawn to her own unrequited longings? Or just to the Head of State? It had been big, but big didn't necessarily mean intelligent, where mazoku were concerned. She tried to remember any telling details of the fight. There was something there, she just knew it. Something... Well, it would come to her soon enough if she didn't poke at it. “I'd best go check on the Sapling,” she said aloud, “Thank you, Madame Hester.”

****

 

She sat in the cool window-seat at the north wall of the library, reading by the light of a spell, keeping an ear out for other movements in the room. This was her fourth night in a row coming out here, and every time the rooster crowed too early the next morning she swore anew that she would do the sensible thing and just make an appointment. But she couldn't quite bring herself to do that. To make an appointment was to involve Lord Christopher and at least half a dozen other people, and what she wanted to say was... private. It might not stay that way, but...

The door creaked open. Sylphiel looked up, then swung her legs off the window-seat and stood. “Hello, Phil-sama.”

He was still in uniform, looking weary and gray. He must have just come here from some official function or other. He gave her a tired wave. “Still up, Sylphiel-san? That won't do.”

“There was a ceremony I had to do by the Sapling at moonset. And you, sir?

He shrugged. “Eh, nothing fancy. Just got caught up telling horse stories with Willoughby after the evening sparring session.” He looked at the shelf that held most of his favorite books and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “How have you been keeping, Sylphiel-san?”

Sylphiel took a deep breath. “I- well enough, sir, but... there was something I wanted to ask you about.”

He smiled and made an expansive gesture. “Certainly, certainly. Ask away!”

“I've been thinking about that day the mazoku attacked.” Sylphiel looked down at her hands, clenched around her book. “You leaped right in, even though you don't have any magic.”

Phil shrugged. “What kind of leader holds back when his people are at risk?”

“But it was more than that! You were making a real difference! It was you that got that... that thing to let go of me. It didn't just duck away into the astral plane; you really hurt it! And the only thing besides magic that will hurt a mazoku is... is...”

“Please, Sylphiel-san, stop.” His voice sounded pained. Sylphiel's cheeks heated. Of course it was too much to imagine that His Highness cared for her. And he must have had oodles of women throwing themselves at him, ever since Amelia was tiny. It was silly of her. And perhaps it was really a father figure she wanted, after all. Phil would certainly be a splendid substitute father, strong and confident and – if not handsome, compelling. All it would take would be forgetting, as she couldn't any more, that he was not only a figure, but a man, with worries and shoulder muscles and mistakes.

“But, Phil-sama,” Sylphiel pleaded, even as she berated herself for doing so, winced at the blow to her own pride and at knowing herself to be proud enough to feel the blow, “do you love me? At least a little? As a daughter?”

His Highness glowered at the bookshelf. “I should,” he rasped. “You're a very fine young woman and any father would be proud of you. But I don't.” He clenched his great paws into fists, and his harsh voice grew so low Sylphiel thought she could feel it buzzing in her breastbone. “Not as a daughter,” he said. “And not just a little.”

“You... Phil-sama....”

He faced her, his deep-set eyes almost invisible in the shadows, his craggy face devoid of its usual cheer. His shoulders heaved.

“You deserve better, Sylphiel-san.”

Sylphiel found herself laughing. “Better than the _crown prince of Seyruun?”_

Phil growled and moved one of his hands as if he were flinging something to the ground. “I know you aren't really moved by the grasping, empty search for earthly power, Sylphiel-san. You understand that Love and Justice are both more worthy goals than mere wealth. So yes, you can do better than a widower twice your age with no spare time. You've already lost so much; you should find someone who can stay with you for the rest of your life. Someone who can take proper care of you without being distracted by a kingdom's worth of demands.”

Sylphiel wiped tears out of her own eyes, but then she squared her shoulders. “You're _not_ twice my age!” she declared. “You're forty. You'd have to be fifty to be twice my age. And what kind of man do you think I'm going to find? I'm too picky. Even Gourry, bless him … he has your strength and kindness and principles, but he sure doesn't have your brains.” Sylphiel marched up to Phil, heart pounding, and put one hand on the side of his neck. He seemed to stop breathing for a moment, but he didn't pull away. “And I've lost too much to want to waste even an instant that I could spend on joy.” She pulled herself in closer to him, watching his face go soft with hope. She rubbed her nose against the side of his – an odd caress that one of the children at the clinic was fond of – and as Phil-sama's hand found its way to her back, she brushed his mustaches out of the way a little and kissed him.


End file.
